Parallels
by Lucifer's Garden
Summary: Merlin, all he wants is just to be good enough for her, just for now, even if only for a minute in space and time. Rose/Scorpius one shot


Rose Weasley, Scorpius Malfoy, and all Harry Potter-related entities are the sole property of Ms. JK Rowling. Trust me, if I'd had anything to do with it, Rose and Scorpius wouldn't exist in the first place because Draco/Hermione would _totally_ be canon (sorry Ron lovers).

Anyway, here's some mindless R/S fluff to carry us all through Monday. This was mostly just an experiment in style and technique, so I apologize if some of it is a little hard to follow. I wrote it in a bit of a rush, because I really, _really_ should be studying for an upcoming exam, so feel free to point out any spelling/grammar mistakes you find.

Enjoy!

_I won't let you walk away _

_Without hearing what I have to say _

_Without hearing what I have to say _

_Without hearing what I have to say_

"Danger Keep Away" – Slipknot

_**Parallels**_

She is not a complicated girl. Everyone thinks she is, because she's so very smart and everyone knows that all smart people are complicated. But when she talks to you, she is saying exactly what she means, at precisely the moment the thought enters her head, and she expects no more and no less in return. That's not to say she is impulsive, exactly (though she has her moments – she is a Weasley, after all). Her mind simply tends to work faster than almost everyone else's, and her mouth knows how to keep up.

He is a complicated boy. Not everyone knows this, because there are in fact very few people who have taken the time to find out as much. When you talk to him, he is usually bored and probably wishing you weren't standing so close, but for all you know he is totally at ease. That's not to say he is a liar, exactly (though he has his moments – he's a Malfoy, after all, not to mention housed in Slytherin). He is just uncomfortable around most people, and is never quite as sure of himself as he seems.

People look at her and see her mother, despite inheriting the red hair and freckles from her father's side. Even so, her deep brown eyes and unapologetically large front teeth make it easy to draw comparisons. That's why people are usually surprised when she opens her mouth and out comes the occasional curse word, or even an off-colour joke from time to time – yes, she has a sense of humour, and no, she is not all that concerned with being 'proper' all the time. The only people whose opinions matter to her are those of her friends and family, and she is fairly certain they adore her just as she is.

People look at him and see his father, because, quite frankly, how could they not? He is unmistakably blond, pale, and grey-eyed, though he is a bit taller than his genes ought to allow. Handsome, even, if you manage to get past his omnipresent glare. Still, people are rarely surprised when he opens his mouth and out comes a sarcastic quip or cutting remark – yes, he can be a bit of a bastard sometimes, and no, he is not exactly proud of it. But the only person whose opinion he really worries about is his father, the one individual who probably knows him less than just about everybody else.

She has a laugh that can be heard nearly a whole corridor away, but only when she finds something _really_ funny, which is actually quite uncommon (smart people are hard to impress). For the most part she just grins, but it has a way of lighting up her whole face in a way that makes whoever's responsible feel oddly important.

He never laughs, not even when he finds something highly amusing, which is pretty much never (again, smart people are hard to impress, and although we haven't established him as such, he really is very bright). For the most part he's content to smirk, because he doesn't know how to let anything soft slip through the cracks.

She doesn't cry that often, but when she does, she tries to rush through it and get it out of her system before anyone else sees. She is not overly emotional like her mother, and not prone to tantrums like her father, but crying is something she views as deeply personal and she will hold herself together until she can have total privacy.

He does not cry.

Her life is so public and open that sometimes she has those selfish little moments when all she wants to do is be invisible for a while. It's hard not to feel like an animal on display at the zoo sometimes, the way people stare and whisper after her on the street. Genuine friends are hard to come by, and it often feels like people only want to say they know her instead of _actually_ getting to know her. But she understands that she has far more than one person could possibly ask for, and only rarely takes it all for granted.

His life is so public and open, and yet he has only ever felt invisible. It's hard not to feel like a criminal out on parole sometimes, the way people pretend not to stare and whisper after him on the street. Friends are hard to come by, and it feels like people only need to know his father and grandfather in order to have him all figured out. He still has his fortune, to be sure, though it's not as impressive as it might have been, but it is all he has ever known and he always takes it for granted.

She first noticed him at the train station, seven years ago, standing by his father and refusing to look as nervous as he probably felt. The only thoughts that registered in her mind was that his face was a bit pointy, and he had a really unfortunate haircut that would have earned him _endless_ torture at her house. But then he had turned and looked right back at her, and even from across the platform she had felt his eyes pierce her right through to the bone. An unfamiliar rush flew up her spine; even thinking about it now makes her blush a little bit. She never had any intention of obeying her father's orders, and planned on getting to know this strange, striking little boy as soon as possible.

He first noticed her at the train station, seven years ago, standing with her family and trying not to look as excited as she obviously felt. All he'd thought of her then was that she was probably going to be really snotty to him, just like everyone else turned out to be when he'd started preparing for school. But then their eyes met and held for a moment, and she actually smiled at him – she probably didn't even realize she was doing it, and thinking about it even now still invokes an uncomfortable ache in his chest. He hadn't figured it out until then that someone could actually steal the air right out your lungs. It frightened him, and he vowed to stay as far away from this strange, dangerous little girl as possible.

That was the first day she ever spoke with him. Well, spoke _to_ him, to be more accurate. She found him in an empty compartment near the back of the train and let herself in without much ceremony, startling him out of an apparent daze. He'd looked at her like she was a bomb that might explode at any minute, but she had been too eager to care. At the time, she just figured he was nervous about going to Hogwarts and being so far away from his parents. She felt sorry for him, and asked if he wanted to come sit with her and her cousins for the rest of the train ride. But he just stared back wordlessly, looking like he'd swallowed a Bertie Bott's bile-flavoured jellybean, and she felt so stupid and embarrassed that she jumped to her feet and fled.

He couldn't believe it that day, when the door to his compartment slid open and in stepped the very creature he had been so desperate to avoid. It just so happens that he was thinking about her then, right at the very moment she barged in, and suddenly she was in the seat across from him, talking like she never planned to draw breath again. And she was being nice. Annoying, but nice. He barely heard a word she said, he was so stunned. He couldn't even summon a voice to reply when she asked if he wanted to join her and her cousins, and Merlin did he ever want to. But the words got stuck beneath the lump in his throat, and all he could do was stare helplessly. He very nearly screamed in frustration when she misunderstood and _fled_ from his sight.

Years passed. Literally. That was her one and only attempt to engage him in conversation, and she was fairly certain she had mentally scarred him somehow. But every now and then she caught him watching her, when he seemed to think she wasn't aware, and there was always something so . . . fragile in his eyes. Fragile, but hungry, in an all-consuming sort of way that always made her heart beat just a little faster. But she didn't want him to feel like he'd been spotted, so she dutifully played dumb as best as she could. What she could not ignore, however, was the taunting. He's a Malfoy, after all, and they insisted he deserved it, but it irritated her to no end and she _made_ them stop if ever they were stupid enough to do it in her vicinity. And it devastated her just a little to know that he still thought about her, even after the spectacle she'd made of herself on the train, and that neither one of them was brave enough to try a second time.

He tried. He really, really tried to approach her again, but every time he got close enough to catch a hint of her perfume (cherry blossoms; he can barely stand it sometimes), his nerves seemed to dissolve on the spot. Even worse, she insisted on defending him whenever someone decided to try and knock him down another peg. He never knew just what it was about him that made others think he was in need of such peg-knocking, but it didn't take long for her to start taking issue with it. She couldn't seem to help herself, though the last thing he needed was a Weasley championing his cause, even her. He never could escape her, though, even when she was nowhere in sight. He stared like an obsessed lover when she was in sight, even though he was almost positive she knew it. It devastated him just a little bit to know that she ignoring him, and that neither one of them was brave enough to try a second time.

She couldn't take it anymore. Come seventh year, she'd simply had enough of this game of theirs, this tentative little song and dance that was slowly driving her mad. The furtive looks, the accidental brushes in the hallways or during class, the halo of rumours surrounding them that were _never_ going to go away - she was determined to put a stop to it, one way or another. Really, it was getting ridiculous, the way they both pretended not to have any idea what was going on.

He had no idea what was going on. Something was different about her this year, but he couldn't quite place it. Something in the way she walked – more determined, even angry almost. He knew almost everything there was to know about her, after semi-stalking her all this time, and he was utterly baffled. Even more than that, though, he was concerned. He actually cared about someone's feelings other than his own, and that right there was enough to convince him that he was hopelessly in over his head.

She kept setting dates, hoping to catch him at the perfect moment. Planning her moves as carefully as any chess master, anticipating his reactions and trying to figure out just how much or how little she should say. What _could_ she say? What if this was all in her head, this sense of . . . urgency, this longing she felt between them? A longing that kept her awake at night, made her lose her appetite every time she saw him, made it damn near impossible to concentrate in class if he happened to be sitting too close (which was never, which was somehow worse). Maybe she is just imagining it all.

But it _can't_ just be his imagination, he reasons frantically. It is undeniable. It has to be. He's never felt more certain about anything in his whole life. If nothing else about him is true, he at least knows this; he is in love with this girl, and had been doomed from the minute she smiled at him across Platform 9¾ seven years ago. Doomed in a way that he can't possibly bear to let go of, not yet, not like this, not with such deafening silence between them. He has to do something, say something, _anything_, before it is too late and he will be nothing more than vapour in her life.

This is it. She's walking up to him in front of everybody, right now, and he sees her coming, so she can't turn and hurry off without giving him the wrong impression. He looks terrified, but she keeps coming until suddenly she's only an arm's length away from him.

Why does she look so scared? He can hardly breathe, but somehow he's coherent enough to wonder what he's doing to make her so nervous. She's _never_ nervous, not before exams, not during Quidditch tryouts, not even when staring down boys twice her size just for giving him a hard time.

She opens her mouth to talk – and kisses him instead.

He freezes.

She's not an impulsive girl (though she has her moments), but she is kissing him now and putting all her seven years of built up agony into it. It's not gentle. It's not graceful. There is nothing refined or conservative about it, but she _means it._

And now he's kissing her back back, even though he is not sure if he's even awake anymore, he has dreamed about this so many times. He's not an impulsive boy (really, he isn't), but Merlin, all he wants is just to be good enough for her, just for now, even if only for a minute in space and time.

Everyone stares, and for a few seconds, everything is perfectly still. Utterly silent, except for his heart pounding in her ears. Then someone decides to start whooping, of all things, and a group of third year girls sigh as one at the sheer _romance_ of it all. Before long, people are cheering, laughing, shouting words of encouragement, and one or two are already rushing off to spread the word. Some of the portraits within viewing range look markedly displeased about the whole thing, but a few have joined in the celebration erupting all around them.

_I'm kissing him_.

_She's kissing me_.

Finally, dizzy and weak, she pulls back, but only just. Her fists are still bunched in the fabric of his robes, and she is so close that she can see herself in his eyes. "Well," she says.

"Y-yeah," he replies, just as eloquently.

"Um," she adds tentatively, "do you . . . maybe want to go for a drink at the Three Broomsticks with me? Sometime?"

He blinks down at her, and smiles. He actually _smiles_, and all traces of stiff, deer-in-the-headlights panic are gone, and he wonders if he's even remotely as beautiful to her as she is to him. "How about Friday?" Someone shouts for him to speak up, they can barely hear him in the back; he motions for them to go and do something very rude.

"Tomorrow?" she clarifies, smiling back. She is quite positive that she could stare at his face all day, every day, and never get over how beautiful he is. "Sure."

Nodding, he clears his throat a little and remembers all the other pairs of eyes fixed entirely on the two of them. "Was . . . was that all?" he asks, hardly daring to hope for more.

Quick on the draw as ever, her grin turns slightly crooked. "I hope not."

He fixes his to match, and for once, they are more than just parallel to each other. "Me too."

FIN


End file.
